


Clear Parameters

by gals_being_pals



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29041293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gals_being_pals/pseuds/gals_being_pals
Summary: It's January 2005. Booth has just returned from a 4 year stint in Afghanistan to live with his wife and son in Chicago. Tempe Brennan is studying a postrgraduate degree in Forensics at Northwestern University, reluctantly moonlighting as a babysitter. Booth and Tempe have different goals, different priorities, and different lives, but what they both need most of all is a friend.
Relationships: Seeley Booth/Temperance Brennan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written Bones fanfic before, and I’d never even watched Bones until I severed a tendon during COVID and I was shut in my flat on sick leave with one working arm. The arm is better now and I can write again, and I’m really working full time and writing an original novel, but I had this idea the other day and I’m gonna go with it. Unlike my favourite f/f pairings, Booth and Brennan actually get together on the show, so here’s an AU about them getting together in a different way. I’ve changed ages, timelines and locations, but the usual disclaimer - the characters aren’t mine.

January 2005 

Tempe shifted the weight of her battered shoulder bag, glaring at the strap. She knew glaring at it wouldn’t make it stronger, but she glared anyway, willing it not to break. It was her own fault. It was weighed down by seven textbooks, three about anatomy, one about pathology, two about ancient civilisations, and one about the politics of genocide. Tempe had to take her reading time where she could get it, so she was always prepared. 

She’d almost been fired from her job swiping cards in the student cafeteria at Northwestern after letting a queue of over 50 students build up because she was too absorbed in a book. Point of fact, most people were idiots - why hadn’t they just swiped their cards themselves? Anyway, she’d been smart enough not to say this to her manager, and since she was on a work study programme, he’d taken pity on her and given her one more chance. 

However, he’d also cut her shifts to the minimum, so she was earning barely more than the cost of living, and she was in desperate need of cash. Tempe didn’t mind surviving on essentials. She got her meals provided, she had clothes so didn’t need more, and she wasn’t a ‘girly’ girl who needed scented shampoo or manicures every week. But she did need money for books. 

She had her eye on a beautiful collection of  _ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _ , printed with their original illustrations and bound in soft red leather. She was happy to borrow her course books from the university library, but mystery novels were the one luxury Tempe had always found a way to obtain. 

And that was why she was standing in front of a fancy apartment building in Andersonville, Chicago after a long day of classes and an uncomfortable 45 minute bus ride. The only thing Tempe hated more than rich people were their rich children, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. So she pressed the buzzer and waited for Mr and Mrs Booth to let her in. 

BREAK

Seeley Booth threw his apparently inadequate t-shirt onto the floor and resisted the urge to stamp on it. 

“You can’t go out looking like that,” he mimicked.

“I can hear you!” Rebecca yelled from the living room. 

Booth sighed. He didn’t want to be angry with her. He poked his head round the door. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I’m still getting used to civilian expectations.” 

Rebecca sighed too. “I just didn’t expect you to have forgotten so much.” 

Booth took a deep breath. He was not a man who yelled at his wife. He refused to be a man who yelled at his wife. 

He’d been home for less than a month, discharged from the army, home in time for Christmas - home to his highschool sweetheart, who he’d married aged 19, just after enlisting, when she told him he was pregnant. They’d coped with the last four years of marriage largely because he’d been in Afghanistan for most of them. Now, finally together, finally a family, he felt further from Rebecca than he ever had overseas. 

He loved his son, though. A relentlessly cheerful three year old, Parker Booth brought a smile to his lips and a twinkle to his eyes, no matter his previous mood. 

Rebecca had accused him of using Parker to avoid her. She’d been dead on, but he’d protested. This whole ridiculous evening had actually been his idea. He’d suggested they get a sitter, go out for a romantic dinner. He’d organised everything, booked a table at the most expensive restaurant in the city, found a sitter, bought her flowers. But she was Rebecca, the queen of finding fault with things, and when he’d come out wearing his favourite t-shirt, one he’d often worn when they were dating, she’d gasped at him in horror. In  _ horror _ . If he was so horrible, he couldn’t help wondering why she’d waited for him for all this time. 

He buttoned a crisp white shirt and tucked it into his black dress pants. He found a tie, the only one he owned, a striped one that had belonged to his Pops, and with that fastened, went back out to face judgement for a second time.

Rebecca tutted. “I suppose you’ll do.” 

Booth smiled. He was determined to enjoy himself, and he was sure he’d heard a compliment in there somewhere.    
  
Their buzzer rang. 

“Where did you say you found this sitter?” Rebecca asked as she went to press the button to open the door. 

“Craigslist,” Booth mumbled. 

Suddenly she was in front of him again, furious. 

“Craigslist? You found the person who we are about to pay to be alone with our son on  _ Craigslist _ ?” 

“She’s a college student, bookish type, seems totally smart, which will be good for Parker, but also totally boring, which means she won’t get up to anything. I spoke to her on the phone. Come on Becks, it was short notice, just give her a chance, please?” 

Booth gave her his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Don’t call me Becks,” Rebecca admonished, but she opened the door to greet the sitter. 

“Good evening, I’m Temperance Brennan,” the young woman announced, holding out her hand. Rebecca shook it with raised eyebrows. Booth gave her a nudge. 

“She’s just polite,” he muttered in her ear as they made their way to the living room. 

  
Rebecca began talking through the apartment, explaining where everything was.

“Parker’s watching TV in his room, he’s ready for bed. You can go in, switch it off and tell him lights out at around 8.” 

“Your husband told me on the phone your child is three years old, correct?” 

“Yes,” Rebecca said, glancing sideways at Booth. At least they’d have something to laugh about in the cab on the way to the restaurant - this girl was bizarre. 

“And you will pay me ten dollars an hour, plus a possible tip?” Tempe asked. 

“Yes,” Booth said, before Rebecca could protest at the price he’d agreed. He liked Temperance. She was weird, but she didn’t beat about the bush. He wished more women would just say what they meant. 

“Then… I hope you both have a wonderful evening.” 

This sounded so rehearsed Seeley almost chuckled. It was as if she’d looked up how to be polite in an encyclopedia. He wondered if she had. 

“Right, off we go then,” he said to Rebecca. His wife, somewhat lost for words, could do nothing but pick up her purse, call goodbye to her son, and follow her husband out of the apartment.

When they were gone, Temperance looked unashamedly around the apartment. She checked the bedroom, where the child was staring vacantly at cartoons which defied the laws of Physics, then set about snooping in every other room. It was a large apartment, far more spacious than anywhere she’d ever lived. The decor was sleek, lots of grey and white, and everything was immaculate. Tempe approved of cleanliness. 

There were two other bedrooms, a perfectly made up guest room, and a master bedroom where a t-shirt was crumpled on the floor. The t-shirt was the only thing out of place in the entire apartment. Tempe wondered what Mr. Holmes would have to say about that. Anomalies were always revealing. Without touching it, Tempe looked closer. It was a man’s t-shirt, fairly worn, so well used. It smelled of soap, with a hint of male perspiration. So it belonged to Mr. Booth. 

Working on the assumption that the Booths conformed to stereotypical gender roles, combined with the shirt, Tempe reasoned it was likely that Mrs. Booth was responsible for the order and cleanliness of the abode. But even if Mr. Booth wasn’t so concerned, everything else had been put away. Therefore, Tempe deduced that it had been removed recently, and Mrs. Booth hadn’t seen it yet.

She went back into the living room, sat on the couch, and began idly speculating about why one t-shirt would be on the floor when everything else was put away. Idle speculation was pointless, she knew, but she’d spent so little time in ‘normal’ family homes, she found herself endlessly curious about them. 

A small voice interrupted her reverie. 

“I’m thirsty.”

The voice came from a blonde, pyjama clad three year old.

Tempe stood up and walked towards the kitchen. The child followed her, padding quietly along in his slippers. She opened the cupboard which contained sippy cups, filled one with water, and handed it to him.

“I don’t like water,” he said. 

Tempe frowned. “More than half of your body is composed of water. It is foolish not to like it.” 

“It tastes like nothing,” Parker continued. 

“Then you cannot dislike it. For you to dislike something, it must exist. Nothing is the absence of a thing which exists - it’s not dislikeable.” 

It was Parker’s turn to frown. “You talk funny.” 

Tempe fetched a glass of water for herself and took a pointed mouthful. Parker looked at the sippy cup, then took a dubious slurp. 

“I guess it’s not that bad.” 

Tempe glanced at the clock. “It is two minutes until the bedtime suggested by your mother. Do you feel tired?” 

Parker shrugged. “My TV’s boring.” 

Tempe led the way to the bedroom and switched the TV off. 

“I had never heard of a three year old who had a TV in his bedroom before.”

“My Mommy puts it on when she wants to yell at my Daddy, so I can’t hear.” 

“That sounds redundant.” 

Parker nodded gravely. He had no idea what she meant. He led the way into his bedroom and sat on the bed. 

“Do you know any stories?” he asked. 

Tempe had heard of children being told stories before they went to sleep. She had vague memories of her mother, talking about princesses and castles and dragons. She concentrated on them until a story formed. 

“I believe I know a story.”

Parker grinned, delighted. He tucked himself under the covers and patted the bed beside him. 

“You have to sit here.”

Tempe complied, and began her story. She had to be a bit creative, and she spent far too long trying to create a plausibly scientific explanation for how a dragon could breathe fire, but Parker loved it. She began to speak more softly, and soon he was asleep. Satisfied that she had completed her job to the best of her ability, Tempe turned off the bedside lamp and went back into the living room to read until the child’s parents returned. 

She got two hours of uninterrupted reading, and she was just congratulating herself on what an excellent career decision this had been when there was a piercing scream from the bedroom. Temperance ran to its source immediately. Parker was sitting bolt upright in bed, terrified, and as she lingered in the room, Tempe noticed an all too familiar odor. Ignoring it, she sat on the now damp bed and held out her arms, allowing Parker to choose whether he wanted a hug or not. 

He dived into them, burying his head in her hair. Tempe held him tightly. 

“It’s okay,” she told him. “You’re safe, you’re in your room. It is extremely unlikely that anything bad will happen to you.”

Parker pulled back. 

“My Daddy says  _ nothing  _ bad will happen. What does extrunlikely mean?” 

“Extremely unlikely means that while you are, for all intents and purposes, safe, there is an outside possibility that something bad could happen. Something bad could always happen.” 

“So my Daddy’s lying?” 

Tempe sighed. “No. He’s just inaccurate. I like to be accurate.”

Parker didn’t know what accurate or inaccurate meant, but Temperance seemed warm and kind. 

  
“I… I done a accident,” he whispered, pointing to his wet pyjamas. 

Tempe nodded. “I know. But there is a simple solution.” 

Parker looked at her questioningly. 

Tempe opened his closet and found another pair of pyjamas. She’d located a washer dryer, in a small room off the kitchen, and the same room housed an airing cupboard which had stacks of bedsheets. 

Tempe stripped the bed and carried the bundle to the washer. Parker trailed after her, sucking his thumb. Next she went to the bathroom and ran a very shallow bath. 

“You can get washed. Do you want me to wait outside the door?”

“No!” Parker insisted. “Stay here.” 

He stripped and got into the bath. He looked confused. 

“Where are the bubbles?” 

Tempe thought of baths she’d seen in movies and TV commercials. Right. Bubbles. She opened the bathroom cabinet and found a bottle of bubble bath. She poured some in. 

“That’s not bubbles,” Parker told her. 

“You have to agitate the soap and water so it can capture air,” Tempe explained. She put her hand in the water and shook it. “Like this.” 

Fascinated, Parker watched as more and more bubbles formed. He washed himself, pointed out his towel, and was soon clean and dry. Tempe added his soiled pyjamas to the machine and, after a few false starts, had it on the right setting to wash and dry everything by morning. She let Parker press the button to make it start. 

“Thank you for helping me,” he said, looking up at her with big brown eyes. 

“Helping you comes under the requirements of my current employment,” Tempe told him. “Let’s put some clean sheets on your bed.”

They had just finished remaking the bed when Tempe heard shouting in the hallway. She caught Parker’s eye. 

“Cover your ears.”

Parker complied, but spoke. “I can still hear. It’s Mommy.”

“Scream,” Tempe suggested. “Then you won’t be able to hear.” 

Parker put his hands down and shook his head. “She’ll stop when she gets inside.” 

He was right. Tempe heard Mrs. Booth lower her voice, still spitting venom, but quietly. 

“Are you alright now?” she asked Parker. “Can you go back to sleep?” 

Parker shook his head. “I wanna go with you,” he said, gripping her hand. Tempe gripped back, and they walked into the living room together. 

“Hello,” Tempe said. “I apologise for interrupting your fight, but the last bus is at eleven. Our evening was uneventful. Parker had an episode of nocturnal enuresis, but it has all been dealt with.”

“Nocturnal what now?” Rebecca demanded, rushing over to her son. 

“I wet the bed,” Parker supplied. “Tempe’s the best. She didn’t even yell at me. And she was ‘splaining all about dragon fire and how a bath makes bubbles.” 

Rebecca registered the change in pyjamas. “You gave him a bath?” she demanded. 

Tempe didn’t register the tone. “Yes. He was covered in urine, so I ran him a bath.” 

Booth touched Rebecca’s shoulder. “What my wife means to say is, thank you so much for dealing with this for us.” 

Rebecca took a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you. And as for your bus, Seeley didn’t drink this evening. He can drive you home.” 

Booth was surprised, but realised Rebecca probably wanted him out of her sight for a while. Fair enough. 

“Yeah, you live in Evanston right?”   
  


“In the student accommodation at Northwestern University, yes.” 

Booth ruffled Parker’s hair. “Goodnight, sport. I’m glad you’re alright.” He turned to his wife. “I’ll… I’ll see you in a little while, then,” he said. She nodded curtly. He tried not to groan. 

Temperance packed her books into her bag and swung it over her shoulder, said goodbye to Parker, and followed Mr. Booth out of the apartment. 

“That looks heavy,” he said when he’d closed his front door. “Can I take it for you?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Temperance said, finding his chivalry ridiculous. He had a beautiful wife and a child who was actually tolerable company. There was no need for him to demonstrate his masculine qualities to her, of all people. 

They rode down the elevator in silence. On the way out to the car, Temperance spoke suddenly. 

“Your child heard you shouting, you know. In the hallway. And he’d heard it before.”   
  


“ _ I  _ was not shouting,” Booth said defensively. “Rebecca yells, sometimes. But so do most people.”

“Just not you.”

“Right.” 

With that settled, they got into the car. After a few minutes of silence, Booth felt compelled to offer some kind of explanation. 

“I make her mad. I was overseas, with the army. I only got back last month. We don’t fit together, not like we used to.” As he spoke, Booth wondered if they had ever really fitted together. 

Temperance didn’t answer, so after another few minutes, Booth spoke again, mainly to break the silence. 

  
“Thanks for taking care of Parker. He’s been getting these nightmares, apparently they only started since I got back. It’s another thing Rebecca’s mad at me for, she says I get him over excited.”

To this, Temperance did reply. “You shouldn’t tell him nothing bad is going to happen. While improbable given the surroundings, bad things can happen to anyone.” 

Booth turned and stared at her. “You say some odd things, Temperance Brennan.”

Tempe shrugged. “I say true things. I’ve found that people find it odd, but in my opinion, it is more odd to lie all the time.” 

Booth tilted his head to one side. “I think I agree with you. I wonder what that makes me?”

“Right,” Tempe told him firmly. Booth chuckled. 

“So what do you study, at Northwestern?”

“I’m currently in my first year of a two year postgraduate course in Forensics. After that, I will pursue a PHD in the field of Forensic Anthropology.” 

“Which is..?”

“The application of scientific techniques and principles towards the identification of persons deceased.”

“Oh, so like a pathologist?” 

“Forensic anthropology is primarily concerned with skeletal or fragmented remains.” 

“Right.” 

There was a pause. 

“I’m considering joining the FBI,” Booth offered. “I’ve been thinking about training as a homicide investigator.” 

“I enjoy homicides. Fictional ones,” Temperance clarified. “Or rather, fictional investigations. I want to buy a special edition of  _ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _ .”

Tempe wondered why she was telling him this. One of her professors had told her not to analyse conversations so much. He’d told her she should ‘go with the flow’. She’d told him she didn’t know what that meant.

He was smiling, so maybe she hadn’t said the wrong thing for once. “I like fictional investigations too,” Booth told her. “And I’ve read all of Sherlock’s several times. Which is your favourite?” 

“I believe reducing literature to favourites is extremely narrow minded. But  _ The Hound of the Baskervilles  _ is often considered to be Conan-Doyle’s best work.”

Now Booth was smiling even more. While the way that she spoke might make some people think of her as immature, if she was already completing a postgraduate degree after four years in college starting at 18, that put her at 23, same as him, and the more she said, the more he thought she wasn’t immature at all.

“And what do  _ you  _ think of  _ The Hound of the Baskervilles _ ?” Booth asked. 

“I was glad it didn’t turn out to be about a supernatural creature. Logic is very important to me. And to Mr. Holmes. What about you?” 

“Me? I still believe it was the hound.” 

Temperance narrowed her eyes. “I have a feeling that you are teasing me.”

Booth chuckled. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes - jeans, t-shirt, worn out jacket, plain brown ponytail. Plain was the word for everything she wore. But it wasn’t the word for her. She had flashing blue eyes guarding an exceptional mind, and while she seemed to speak and understand things differently than most women, Booth found himself enthralled. 

“I would tease you back, but I’ve been told I’m not adept at humour.”

“I don’t know. That thing you said before about liking homicide was funny. Albeit a little creepy.”

“That wasn’t on purpose. What do you mean that you and your wife don’t fit together any more? Have you grown too large?”

Booth felt the car swerving as he jolted in surprise at the question. He adjusted the wheel and focused on the road. Yep, Temperance was definitely different than other women. 

“I didn’t mean it literally. I mean our personalities don’t fit, you know? We don’t get along like we did before.” 

“The human brain continues developing throughout the third decade. Our brains are still developing now.” 

“You mean, maybe it’s natural, that we’ve changed?” 

“You are still the same people. But your thoughts and approaches might have altered, yes. And since you were in completely different environments, it’s unsirprising that they altered in different ways.” 

“You’re pretty smart Temperance, you know that?”

“My IQ is 169.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” 

“You can call me Tempe.” 

Booth was struggling to keep up. 

“Because we are friends,” Tempe elaborated. 

Booth was about to question this when he realised friends with Tempe Brennan was exactly what he wanted to be. 

“Then you should call me Seeley. Or Booth. Whichever you like.”    
  


“In my head, I call you Mr. Booth, and your wife Mrs. Booth. I thought it was appropriate, given that you are my employers. But I thought you were older. It transpires that I made an inaccurate assumption.” 

“How terrible,” Booth teased. 

“Quite,” Tempe replied.

“Well, how about you drop the ‘Mr.’ and just call me Booth?”

“Because you were a soldier?”

“Because Seeley reminds me of a time I’d rather not think about.” 

“Your wife calls you Seeley.”

“She thinks calling me by my surname would be vulgar.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“Beats me.”

They were approaching the Northwestern campus. Booth found himself slowing down, not wanting the journey to end. 

“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked suddenly. 

Tempe shook her head. “I use the payphone in the dorm. Why?”

“I was going to ask for the number,” Booth admitted. “I… I’m enjoying this. Talking to you.” 

“I don’t think Mrs. Booth will want me to babysit again,” Tempe said. “I realised she was angry that I gave Parker a bath. I don’t understand why.” 

“Me neither,” sighed Booth, meaning something slightly different. “Don’t call her Mrs. Booth. She’s Rebecca. And she didn’t actually take my name.” 

“Because marriage is an antiquated and sexist ritual?” 

“Because it’s the name of a famous assassin.” 

“Oh.”

Tempe began to explain how to get to her dorm and Booth followed her directions until he was parked outside it. He reached over, opened the glove compartment in front of her, and pulled out a pen and a napkin. 

“Here,” he said, handing her a scribbled set of digits. “That’s  _ my  _ cell number. You can call me from your payphone. Especially during the day, on weekdays. Rebecca’s working then.” 

Tempe took the napkin and eyed it thoughtfully. Then her expression changed. 

“You owe me money,” she said abruptly. 

Booth pulled out his wallet. “Right.” He handed her a crisp $50 bill. 

“That’s too much,” Tempe said. 

“It’s a tip, for dealing with the bedwetting.” 

Tempe found this answer acceptable, and pocketed the money along with the napkin. “Thank you.” 

“You will call me, right?” Booth asked, wishing he didn’t sound so desperate. 

“Yes. My friend Angela says you should wait at least a day before calling a ‘guy’ after he gives you his number. But I don’t think this counts, because you’re already married, and you’re going to be my friend, not a guy.”

Booth chuckled. Everything she said made him feel better. He hadn’t felt this calm in months, maybe in years. “How about you call me on Monday afternoon?” 

Tempe smiled. She liked clear parameters. “At 2pm?”

“That would be perfect.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The apartment was quiet. Booth wasn’t surprised, he’d been gone for over an hour. The master bedroom door was locked. He wasn’t surprised by that either. Trudging to the bathroom, he dropped his clothes in a trail behind him. He knew leaving a mess would make things worse. He knew, and in a way, he relished the knowledge. 

He was just settling down in the guest bedroom when there was a blood curdling scream from the next room. He rushed straight to its source, Parker, wet again, sobbing and screeching in terror. 

Booth scooped him up and hugged him close. 

“It’s okay kid. You’re safe.”

Parker clung on like a vice. Booth held him with one hand and used the other one to strip the bed. He remembered the washer was running, so carted the sheets to the bathroom. He sluiced Parker down, dried him off, dressed him in another set of clean pyjamas, and carried him through to the guest room. 

“Sorry Daddy,” Parker mumbled into his shoulder. 

“Hey, it’s not your fault.”

They were lying in bed, and while Parker had gone through the motions of getting cleaned up in a zombie like stupor, he seemed more awake now, his eyes wide, still a little fearful. 

“Mommy says I gotta get up and go to the bathroom. But I didn’t wake up.” He gave a sniffle, he looked as if he was trying not to cry. 

Booth met his eyes. “There’s two things I need to tell you, son. First of all, I know it wasn’t your fault and you’d go to the bathroom if you could. Second, if you need to cry, you gotta let it out. Seems like you got a pretty good scare from that dream. I cry when I get a good scare, too.” 

Parker looked at his father, wide eyed and tearful. “Really? Mommy says big boys don’t cry. Aren’t you a big boy?”

Booth paused. “You gotta respect your Mom, kid. But in this case, she’s… She made a mistake. Everybody needs to cry sometimes.”

“And you really get scared?” 

Booth nodded. “Sure I do.”

“Like when you were fighting bad guys in ‘nuther countries?” 

Booth decided the complexities of global politics was an explanation for another time. “Sure. But I also get bad dreams sometimes. And they can be the  _ worst _ . When you’re awake, at least you can kick the bad guys’ asses. But in a dream, you’re paralysed…” he trailed off, realising he’d been talking more to himself than to his son. 

“In my dreams, I wish you’d come and get me, but I’m falling and falling and it’s all dark and I’m trying to call you but you don’t come,” Parker said softly. 

Booth nudged his shoulder. “Maybe you can make that your trick.”

“Huh?”

“Because if you call me in real life, Parker, I’ll be there. Always. I’m not gonna leave you again. I promise. So if you ever call me and I don’t come, you’ll know it’s a dream.” 

Parker considered this. “Okay,” he decided. 

He snuggled in, and Booth listened as his breathing slowed and he slumped into sleep. Booth listened to his son for a long time before falling asleep himself, wondering what the dreams were about, wondering if they were his fault. 

He awoke to another scream, but it wasn’t Parker this time. Gently easing the boy off his chest, Booth slipped out of bed and followed the source of the noise. 

“Easy,” he said, approaching Rebecca similarly to the way he’d approach a wild animal. “Parker’s sleeping.” 

Rebecca pointed to the pile of soiled sheets in the bathtub. 

“Did you leave these here?” she spat. 

Booth took a breath, making sure his tone came out calm and even.

“Yes. The washer was already running. I figured I’d put them in when it was done.”

“And did you  _ figure  _ that someone might want to use the bathroom, or take a shower, before that?”

Booth sighed. “Honestly, Rebecca, no, I didn’t. It was one in the morning, Parker was in a state, we were both exhausted, and I was just thinking about getting him cleaned up and into bed.”

“Into  _ your  _ bed,” Rebecca said with evident disdain. “He should sleep in his own bed. He’ll never learn to self soothe-”

“Have you ever had a nightmare?” Booth interrupted, struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice. 

Rebecca was wrongfooted. She wasn’t used to Booth talking over her. “I... You… He should sleep in his own bed, nightmares or no nightmares. He’s only having them because you over stimulate him, you’re always playing with him, teasing him, picking him up. He needs to learn to be more independent.”

“He’s  _ three _ .”

“He’ll start preschool in the fall. Do you want him to be bullied?”

Booth knew it was pointless. Biting back everything he felt like saying, he bent down, scooped up the dirty sheets, and carried them out of the room. Resisting the temptation to dump them on Rebecca’s bed, he put them in a basket on top of the washer, then returned to the bathroom and washed out the tub without another word.

Rebecca got into the shower and Booth headed for the kitchen to put on some coffee. It was still percolating when Parker appeared in the doorway, hopping from one foot to the other. 

“Daddy, I gotta  _ go _ ,” he said. 

“You know where it’s at-” Booth began, but realised Rebecca was in there. “Doesn’t Mommy let you in?”   
  


Parker shook his head. “She says hold it!”

Booth rolled his eyes, made sure there was nothing in the sink, then hoisted Parker over it. 

“Go. Quick, before Mommy catches us.” 

Parker giggled, then did as advised.

“You’re  _ bad,  _ Daddy,” he said. 

Booth decided not to mention that he’d resorted to this strategy on numerous occasions. 

“It’s better than peeing on the floor,” Booth argued. 

“What is?” Rebecca was in the doorway, wearing a fluffy bathrobe and a condemnatory expression. 

Booth was not a liar. 

“Peeing in the sink.” 

He wasn’t a pacifist either. 

“You did not-”

“Don’t worry, there was nothing in there, and I ran the tap and put some soap down after. It was an emergency.” 

Rebecca looked like she wanted to punch him. Booth flashed her his best innocent smile. 

“Don’t you look at me like that. I’m mad at you!” she whined, but he could see her face softening. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let it go. I’ll make us breakfast, then we can all go to the park.” 

Rebecca sighed. “I’ll take some coffee, but I need to go into the office.” 

“It’s Saturday!”

“I’m making up for lost time,” Rebecca explained, flicking her eyes at Parker. “Not that I regret it,” she added quickly. “I just don’t want to get left behind.” 

“Behind what?” Parker asked when she’d gone to get changed. 

“The other rats in the race,” Booth told him. 

BREAK

Booth sat on a bench, bundled up in his jacket, watching Parker play on the climbing frame and eyeing a nearby coffee cart with longing.

“Daddy, watch this!” Parker squealed, diving headfirst down the slide. He escaped the manoeuvre unscathed and jumped up and down with delight. 

“Daddy, your turn!” 

Booth was about to get up and follow when he heard a familiar voice. 

“Emily, you have reached your maximum potential energy on that swing. Lower your centre of gravity, please.”

“Hey, it’s Tempe,” Parker said, skipping over to her. 

Temperance looked up, startled, as Booth and Parker approached. 

Emily, a rather prim looking six year old, hopped off the swing and approached them. 

“Who are you?” she asked Booth. 

“He’s a friend of mine,” Tempe told her. “And this is his son, Parker.”

“He’s just a baby,” Emily said. 

“I’m not a baby!” Parker said loudly. “I can do the slide all by myself. Can  _ you _ ?”

Booth wished Rebecca had heard him to assuage her fears about him getting picked on at preschool. In all other respects, however, Booth was very happy Rebecca was not present.

Parker dashed off to demonstrate his sliding prowess, and Emily, determined to prove her superiority on all aspects of the play structure, followed.

“Another babysitting job,” Temperance explained. “It was last minute, apparently the usual person has the flu. They called me this morning.”

Booth remembered the coffee cart. 

“Is it against babysitting ethics if you watch Parker as well for two minutes, while I buy a coffee?” 

Tempe was about to say she wasn’t entirely familiar with the ethical codes of babysitting, being quite new to the profession, but it dawned on her that babysitting probably didn’t have a formal code of ethics, being a casual sort of job. 

“I think you are asking, in fact, about my personal position, and ethically, I have no objections, however…”

Booth’s eyes twinkled. “You want a coffee too, don’t you? 

Tempe smiled. It made her eyes glitter. “Yes, please.” 

“You got it.”

Tempe watched the children, deciding she definitely liked Parker better than Emily. A few seconds later, however, she was forced to retract the decision. Picking favourites  _ was  _ against her personal code of ethics.

Booth returned after less than a minute and Tempe took her coffee gratefully. She was used to having a very effective morning routine, but the last minute babysitting call had thrown her and she’d had to rush out for the bus. 

“Hey, I actually want to ask you something,” Booth told her as they settled on the bench. “Last night, you said some fancy name for wetting the bed-”   
  


“Nocturnal enuresis? Yes, it’s quite common.” 

“Right. Well, I wondered what you knew about it?” 

  
Tempe considered. “It can have various causes. In Parker’s case, it seems to go along with a stress reaction - nightmares.”

Booth nodded. “Do you know how to… how to address it?” 

Tempe thought about this. “Not really. You should consult Parker’s paediatrician. I do know that you can buy diapers for any size of child, or adult, even. I’ve seen them, in Target,” she added helpfully. 

Booth frowned. “I think Rebecca might see that as regression.”

“Why? He’s wetting the sheets anyway. How is it regression for him to wear something which makes it all a bit more comfortable and convenient?” 

“Can you write that down for me so I say it right when I try to persuade her?” 

Tempe felt in her pocket. “I apologise. I don’t have a pen.” 

Booth laughed. Tempe looked at him, puzzled. 

“I wasn’t being literal, I just meant I… Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed at you. I just meant I wanted to remember.” 

Tempe shrugged. “People often laugh at me. Only Angela doesn’t.” 

“You mentioned Angela last night, too. Who is Angela?” 

“She’s a woman that, if you meet her, will make you lose all interest in me.” Tempe said this without a trace of resentment or ill feeling. As far as she was concerned, this was a fact. 

Booth disagreed. 

“I’m intrigued, but only because I can’t imagine a more interesting woman than you.” 

“She’s not as intelligent,” Tempe explained, “but she is far more beautiful. And she knows about conversations, she understands people. Reads… signals, she calls them, but they aren’t really signals. If they were signals, I could have some sort of device to alert me to them. To me, they are all but undetectable.”

Booth was still digesting when Tempe spoke again. 

“You haven’t said anything. Have I made you uncomfortable? I do that.”

Booth put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Not at all. I’m just… What you said, it deserved some thinking time.”

“Oh.” 

Tempe was not used to talking with people who took time to think about the things she said. She watched the children, now playing happily. She found that she was acutely aware of Booth’s hand on her shoulder, even through the thickness of her jacket. She sipped her coffee and tried to remember what Angela had been teaching her about physical proximity. 

Unable to remember anything that made sense of the tingling sensation now spreading down her arm, she decided to terminate the issue, and stood up. 

“I should take Emily home.” 

“Right. Hey, what time will you be done?” Booth found himself asking her. 

“I’m with her all day. I’ll finish at 6.”

“Do you want a ride home?” Booth found himself asking. As he asked, he wondered how on earth he was going to explain it to Rebecca. But, he justified, if she had a problem with him giving a ride to a friend, it was exactly that -  _ her  _ problem. 


	3. Chapter 3

Booth drove up to the address Tempe had given at 6.07pm. Temperance was sitting on the wide stairs leading into the building, her hair down and tumbling over her shoulders, a book propped on her knees. People bustled past her on the street but she seemed completely oblivious, unaware of anything but what she was reading. Booth studied the minute changes in her expression, the slight turn of her head to read the next page, the sweep of her hand as she tucked her hair behind her ear. She had the sleeves of her sweater pulled down past her jacket, leaving only her fingertips exposed. 

He saw her shiver. It had been dry since Christmas, but Booth was expecting snow. He hadn’t seen snow in years. 

He’d thought she might look up and notice his car, a red pickup reminiscent of his high school days, but it had been a few minutes now. For another friend, Booth would blast the horn, but Tempe was so deep in the book he was reluctant to startle her. 

He parked instead, then strolled over, enjoying watching her. 

“Voyeurism is one of the most common paraphilias,” Tempe said, not looking up. 

Booth felt colour rising to his cheeks and realised he was blushing. He cleared his throat gruffly and squared his shoulders. 

“Sorry.”

Tempe closed her book and smiled sweetly. “There’s no need to apologise. It’s a mental illness.” 

Booth narrowed his eyes. “Temperance Brennan, are you teasing me?” 

Tempe looked at him blankly, then shook her head, but Booth still suspected. 

“I’m not a psycho creep, I just… I find you interesting,” he justified. 

“Why?” Tempe asked, getting into the car. “By the way, referring to the mentally ill as ‘psycho creeps’ is discriminatory and unhelpful.” 

“Because you say stuff like that. I’ve always been good at talking to girls,” he said with a slight smirk. “But you don’t talk like any other girl.” 

Tempe fastened her seatbelt and glared at him when he did not do the same. “The trope of popular fiction, where a woman is described as ‘not like other girls’, is one of the reasons I avoid it.”

Booth looked over his shoulder as he pulled out from the parking space, then caught Tempe’s eye as he turned to face forward again. 

“Why don’t you like it? You  _ aren’t _ like other girls.” 

Tempe leaned back in her seat. 

“While that’s true, it’s also a non statement. All people are unique. Even identical twins have unique fingerprints. So of course you can describe a girl, or more accurately a woman, to be unlike other women, but it’s meaningless.”

“I’m not talking about fingerprints, I’m talking about your… Your  _ you _ -ness.”

“That’s not a word.” 

Booth sighed in exasperation, but he was secretly enjoying the conversation.

“Come on, you’re ridiculously smart, you must have at least an inkling about what I mean. You’re different, special.”

“All people are different. I’ve done nothing to warrant the accolade of special.”

“But you must know about, I don’t know, societal norms, stereotypes, that sort of thing.”

“I lie less than most people,” Tempe conceded. “And watch less television.” 

Booth nodded. “See! The not lying thing, that  _ does  _ make you special.”

“It’s a sad state of affairs if honesty is all it takes to make a person special.” 

“Don’t you agree? Have you ever met anyone as honest as you?”

Tempe considered this. “Parker.” 

Booth laughed out loud. “He doesn’t count! He’s three. He hasn’t learned to lie yet.”

“You could teach him not to.” 

Booth was quiet for a while, considering what an excellent idea this was. Then he remembered he was still trying to win an argument. 

“Okay, I can prove it. I’m going to list some things that most girls are into, and you’re going to tell me your views.”

“You will prove nothing. What is your evidence that ‘most’ girls are ‘into’ these things?’

‘Because I  _ know _ . I know girls.”

“I hope you mean women.” 

Booth rolled his eyes. 

“Of course I mean women. Come on, you like evidence. Let me give you some.”

“It will be anecdotal at best.”

“I can live with that.”

Tempe sighed. In a way, she was curious. She wanted to know how he saw her, and how he saw other women. They were bordering on territory she struggled to understand, and she wondered if his ‘proof’ might at least provide her with some insight. 

Booth took the sigh as an assent, which it was. 

“Okay. Most girls, most  _ women _ ,” he corrected after she gave him a look, “wear make-up.” 

“Almost all civilisations have some form of body decoration as part of their culture, often linked with mating rituals. I wear make-up on such occasions. I believe that places me within normal limits.” 

Booth groaned. She was going to talk her way out of this. “Fine, you can have make-up.”

“I should get a point,” Tempe said, smiling. 

“This isn’t about points!” Booth protested. 

“I believe you are afraid of losing, Booth.” 

He liked it when she said his name. He liked it so much, he agreed to the points thing. 

“Okay, you have a point. But you won’t get this one. Nail polish.” 

Tempe conceded. “I don’t see the purpose of it. You may have a point.” 

“Why, thank you,” Booth said, copying her formal tone. “Alright… magazines.”

“I read magazines.”

“Oh yeah? Give me the titles.” 

“Anthropology Matters, Forensics Monthly, and the MENSA magazine.”

Booth grinned at her. “For real?” 

Tempe gave him a puzzled look. 

“Dude, I  _ so _ get this point. Name one other woman you know who reads even one of those magazines. And it can’t be someone who wrote an article in one,” he added quickly when she opened her mouth.

“I suppose they are unusual choices for my demographic.”

“ _ Booth creeps into the lead with two points to one _ ,” Booth teased. 

“I enjoy sexual intercourse!” Tempe said suddenly. “And I’m employed as a babysitter, which I believe is a predominantly female occupation.” 

“Damn it!” Booth said in mock frustration. “But this is my test. You don’t get to say the things.” 

“Why not? It’s not fair if only you get to think of things. Three - two.” 

They were approaching Evanston. Booth found himself sorely disappointed to see the sign so soon. 

“Enjoying  _ sex _ ,” Booth said it with some discomfort, “isn’t just women. You can have the babysitter thing. Two all. Where do you get your hair cut?” 

“I cut my own hair.”

Booth did a little dance in his seat. “Back in the lead. You cut your own hair?” 

“What about you, where do you get your hair cut?” 

“That’s different. My Dad was a barber.”

“Answer the question.”   
  


“I cut my own hair too. But I’m a guy!”

Tempe pursed her lips. “It’s sexist to accept something for one gender and not another.”

“Hey, I don’t disagree, but we’re not talking about sexism, we’re talking about you being special.” 

Tempe was in the strange position of very much wanting to win, but simultaneously knowing that losing meant she was special. She had never felt special, not since her parents left and she was… Anyway. 

“Okay, I accept that cutting my own hair is atypical. I have two points to your three.” 

“That’s very big of you.”

“I don’t know what that means. You are clearly far bigger than I am.” 

Booth grinned, then saw a sign for the turn to Northwestern. 

“Hey, you want to grab a burger?”   
  


“I’m vegetarian.” 

“Hey, you want to grab some fries?” 

Tempe evaluated her options. She was hungry, but she could eat for free in the cafeteria. Eating out would be at least five dollars, and she was getting so close to her Sherlock Holmes collection.

“I do, but my financial situation doesn’t allow for eating outside the cafeteria,” she told him. 

“I’m buying,” Booth said, surprised she’d expected anything else.

“Are you sure? Angela says that when two people meet after 7pm and no one else is there, it’s probably a date, especially if there’s food, and even more so if you don’t split the bill.”

“Your Angela has a lot of rules.”   
  
“Not really. I think she makes them up to explain things to me. I’ve gotten into awkward situations before because I didn’t realise people thought they were dating me.” 

Booth chuckled. He could imagine that. He pointed to the clock on the dash. “It’s six thirty-eight. We’re safe.”   
  
“I think the spirit of the-”

“Look. You’re my friend. It’s no different than me buying dinner for any other buddy of mine who was low on cash.” 

Tempe decided she believed him. “I suppose it does you an injustice to imagine you have any other intentions,” she said. 

Booth wanted to glow at the compliment, but inwardly his intentions had begun to battle violently. Being with Temperance was so easy, so entertaining, so intriguing. But a part of that intrigue came from a part of him which was not supposed to be intrigued by anyone other than Rebecca. He sighed. He would never break that vow. He knew he wouldn’t. 

And in that case, what was wrong with having dinner with Tempe? What was wrong with having a friend?  _ She’s a guy _ , he told himself.  _ I think of her like a guy.  _

“Dinner it is, then,” he said quietly. 

He drove past a McDonald’s and a Wendy’s, looking for something more authentic. He found a diner on a street corner, with chipped paint and read leather booths and a long bar with glass containers of pie. 

Tempe grabbed the door before he could open it for her and marched inside. She picked up a menu. Booth snatched it from her, shook out a napkin to cover the prices, and gave it back. 

“So you don’t overthink it,” he told her. 

“How did you know I was considering the cost?” Tempe asked. He had been absolutely right. 

“Just a guess,” Booth said, deciding not to tell her about similar experiences in his teenage years. He had to admit, it was nice that Rebecca earnt a lot. 

“Can I have a veggie burger and fries?” Tempe asked, with a shyness Booth hadn’t expected. “Of course. And to drink?”    
  
“Uhm, just water.”    
  


“Water’s free. Do you like milkshakes?” 

“They’re extremely unhealthy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”   
  


Tempe paused. “I’ve never had one,” she admitted. 

Booth gaped at her. “You’ve  _ never had a milkshake _ ? I definitely get a point for that.” He turned to the waitress. “We’re going to sit in that booth by the window. Can we get a beef burger and fries, a veggie burger and fries, a jug of water, and a chocolate milkshake, please?” 

She nodded. “I couldn’t help but overhear. The milkshake’s on the house! But what did you mean, you get a point?” 

She was a kindly looking woman, at least 50, with wrinkles around her eyes from giving lots of loving smiles. 

“He’s trying to prove I’m not like other women. I don’t think I’m any less like other women than any woman is,” Tempe explained. 

“She keeps insisting that she’s not special,” Booth added, as if this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

The waitress took a moment to digest this, then leaned in to speak to them both in a low voice. 

“Can I give you some advice?” she asked. 

Tempe nodded. “Why are we whispering?” she asked in an exaggerated stage whisper. Booth tried not to laugh. 

The waitress started with Booth. “You aren’t going to convince her by telling. Actions speak louder, young man.” Then she turned to Tempe. “I see the way you look at him. I hope you never stop looking at him like that.”

With that, she bustled off to put their order in. Both deep in thought, they sat down on opposite sides of the table. It was beginning to get dark and Tempe looked at their reflections in the window. 

“How do I look at you?” she asked Booth suddenly. 

Booth pondered this. He looked into her eyes, so deep and blue and dazzling, then blinked and looked away. 

“You look… Openly. Unashamedly. Like you see me, and you want to.”

“Isn’t that how everybody looks at you?” Tempe asked. 

Booth shook his head, smiling a little. “I don’t know many people who dare to look at other people like that.”   
  
“Why not? How do you look at me?” 

“I… I don’t know.”  _ Longingly _ , his errant mind provided. 

“A lot of people seem like they don’t like me, and their eyes do something, it’s like-” Booth tried not to laugh as Tempe showed an exaggerated form of disgust with her eyes. “Angela says they’re just jealous because I’m smart. But I think it’s more than that. I’ve come to realise that, in general, people do not like me. Especially after I speak. I like it very much when you look at me… It makes me feel warm inside.” 

Although he’d been moments from laughter, as she finished speaking, Booth found himself closer to tears. She was so casual about it, this firm belief that most people disliked her. She’d accepted it. He refused to let her believe it was what she deserved. 

“I think Angela’s right.”

Tempe smiled. “I think you and Angela have quite a lot in common.” 

Booth smiled back. “We definitely share excellent taste in friends.”    
  


It took Tempe a moment to realise what he meant, and when she did, she smiled so widely Booth felt as if it lit up the whole room. 

Their food arrived and they ate. Tempe was rather less horrified than Booth expected when he recommended dipping fries into the milkshake, and they sat for a long time after they’d eaten, talking about inconsequential things that became infinitely more interesting to them because of the source of the conversation. 

“I guess we’d better go,” Booth said, checking his watch. It was almost 9. Rebecca would be livid when he got home, even more so when she realised he’d left his cellphone on the nightstand. 

Tempe nodded, and stood up. She definitely didn’t dither, Booth observed. He liked that, too. He got up, paid the bill, and they left. 

They spent the short drive to her dorm in companionable silence. Booth wondered what Tempe was thinking about. He found himself thinking about Parker, about Tempe and Parker and how much his son seemed to have warmed to her. 

He parked in front of the dorm. “You’re still gonna call on Monday, right?”

  
Tempe nodded. “Of course. It’s in my diary.” 

Booth grinned. “Good.”

Tempe paused for a moment, then, in a swift movement, extricated herself from the car, said, “Goodbye,” almost aggressively, and slammed the door closed. 

Booth laughed for a full minute at this before turning to drive back home. 

BREAK

“Where have you  _ been _ ?” Angela demanded as soon as Tempe entered the room. 

Tempe found herself blushing. 

“Must have been somewhere interesting,” Angela commented. “I’m glad. You should do more interesting things.” 

Tempe put her book bag onto the desk and sat down to take off her shoes. “It wasn’t that interesting. A friend drove me home from the city. We had dinner.” 

“What kind of friend?” Angela asked, narrowing her eyes. Slim, dark, and bohemian, Angela twirled through life with an unshakable faith in love and passion and art. She’d loved Temperance Brennan since their freshman year of college, when she’d taken it upon herself to protect Tempe from, well, quite often, herself. 

“The… friendly kind,” Tempe said, avoiding. 

“Male or female?”   
  
“Male.”   
  
“Attractive?” 

“Attraction is subjective.”

“Okay. Are  _ you  _ attracted to him?”

Tempe paused. “I don’t know. He’s married.”

“Oh.  _ Oh _ . That’s spicy, even for you.” 

“We’re not  _ dating _ . We only met on Friday. It’s the man who called me with the babysitting job.” 

“Wait, so you met this guy yesterday, then had dinner with him today? How did that happen?”   
  
“You know I was back in the same neighborhood for another babysitting job. I was in the park, and I met him and his son. Statistically, it’s not that improbable.” 

“A meet cute! You had a meet cute!”

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Whatever. Carry on, sweetie! How did you end up having dinner?”    
  
“Well. We talked, I told him when I’d finish, and he knew I’d have to take the bus because of yesterday, so he offered me a ride home, and then on the way, we were talking, and he asked if I wanted to have dinner. And I was hungry.” 

“I bet you were,” Angela said, waggling her eyebrows. “You told me last night the couple are basically our age, right?”    
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Happy couple?”    
  
“I heard them fighting,” Tempe admitted. 

“You’re not as oblivious as you seem, Brennan.”

Angela had always used Tempe’s surname. She didn’t get along with the meaning of ‘Temperance’. 

“It’s not a romantic thing. You know I don’t lie. It’s not.”   
  


“Maybe not  _ yet _ . But I’ve told you, if two people meet alone, after seven-”   
  
“It was six thirty-eight!” Tempe protested. 

Angela looked pointedly at their clock, which read nine twenty six.

“Well, it was when we  _ decided _ to have dinner,” Tempe said weakly. “I know I’m not always right about people. But he’s a good man. He wouldn’t cheat on his wife.”

“People do all kinds of things with the right provocation, Brennan, and I know you don’t know you’re provocative, but for the right person, I’m sure you could be. If he’s driving an hour round trip just to spend time with you, which is what it sounds like, I think we can consider him at least a little provoked.”

“You’re using provoke to mean something different than its usual meaning.” 

Angela smiled, giving a nod. “What does he look like?”

Tempe tried to think of a suitable description. As an artist, Angela was keen on detail, and Tempe knew ‘tall’ wouldn’t cut it. 

“He used to be a soldier, and you can tell. He’s over six feet, he has wide shoulders and very well developed musculature. His eyes and hair are brown. Mainly, when I look at him, I look at his eyes, because I like the way he looks at me.” 

Tempe had been thinking about the warmth of Booth’s eyes since she’d told him about it in the diner. It was curious to her, what a difference it made to put it into words. Now that she’d spoken it aloud, the thought was easier to accept, but harder to avoid.

Angela closed her eyes to imagine. “Okay, I have an idea. When are you going to introduce us?” 

“Never,” Tempe told her firmly.

“You wound me, Brennan.”

“Do you really want to meet him?”   
  
“Of course. And if it’s really as boring as you say and you two are just going to be friends, fine, he can be my friend too.” 

Tempe paused. “I guess it might be nice to do something together. We could go out.”   
  
“Yes! I knew I was a good influence on you. Let’s take him out next weekend.”

Tempe had a horrible thought. “Do you think we should invite his wife?”   
  
Angela considered her persona code of ethics. “It’s healthy for married couples to have their own, separate friends. And so what if your Booth is a guy and we’re girls? To hell with gender roles.”   
  


Tempe smiled. “Exactly.” Her brain was fixating on the phrase ‘your Booth’. He wasn’t her Booth. Not at all. 

Your Booth. 

_ My Booth. _

The phrase stayed with her as she showered, as she brushed her teeth, as she got into bed. She closed her eyes. 

“Sometimes,” Angela said softly, into the darkness. “Sometimes the right thing to do is what feels right for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = motivation = updates!


	4. Chapter 4

Against his better judgement, Booth bought a pack of cigarettes on his way home. He sat in his pickup outside his building, rolled the window down, and smoked deeply. It was foolish, he knew. It would only make Rebecca even angrier. 

She’d come in from work at five thirty. He’d poked his head out of the cushion fort he and Parker had built across the living room, and after a brief ‘how was your day?’ he’d told her he was going out. 

“Out where?” 

“Giving a friend a ride. I won’t be long.” 

Then he’d grabbed his keys, wallet and jacket, ruffled Parker’s hair, and left, ignoring Rebecca’s incredulous, “What do you mean, not long? Twenty minutes? Three days?”

Perhaps it was unfair of him not to talk to her about it. But she’d shut him out first. She’d been shutting him out for years. They both knew they were only together because of Parker, and they both knew, in their hearts, that it wasn’t working. 

_ And you don’t want it to be working _ . 

Booth shook off the comment from the back of his mind. Yes, he did. Or he had. He’d come back full of hope, desperate to make things work for his family. He’d been hurt, yes, perhaps a little shellshocked. But he’d been there, he’d been trying, and Rebecca.... Hadn’t. 

Stowing the cigarettes in the glove compartment, he exited the vehicle and headed inside. 

The fort had disappeared. Every cushion and blanket was in its proper place. A passing real estate agent wouldn’t even be able to tell a child lived there. 

Rebecca sat on the couch, still dressed in her work clothes, still wearing her heels. She nursed a glass of red wine. Her manicured nails matched the deep burgundy liquid in the glass. 

Booth entered and she looked at him expectantly, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. 

“Where have you been?” 

“I told you, giving a ride to a friend.” 

“To where, New York?” 

“I’ve been gone a couple of hours, Becks. It’s not that big a deal.”   
  


“Don’t call me Becks.” 

“You used to love it when I called you Becks.” 

“I’ve grown up, Seeley. One of us had to.” 

Booth ignored the resentment building in his chest. Was she implying he  _ hadn’t  _ grown up while he was fighting a goddamn war?

“Fine.  _ Rebecca _ . It’s been a few hours-”

“It’s been more than four hours. Who is this friend?” 

“Rebecca, I can have my own friends. I don’t ask for the intimate details of your friendships.”

Rebecca stood to the odor of stale smoke. 

“Smoking, Seeley? God, sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” 

“Maybe you don’t,” Booth said quietly.

“What was that?” 

“Maybe you don’t,” he repeated. “Maybe  _ we  _ don’t. Look, I know we said we’d try, for Parker, but we’ve tried, Be-Rebecca, and-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Seeley.”

Booth sighed. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.” 

Rebecca swallowed the remainder of her wine and evaluated her husband. 

“You used to be a star,” she murmured. “So powerful, so confident. Now you’re… You look the same. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but pretty much. Inside, though… You’re not the man I married.” She said it like an accusation. 

“We were kids, Rebecca. Dumb kids fooling around. And I’m not gonna say it wasn’t beautiful, because it made Parker. But we weren’t ready for this.”

Rebecca sighed. “I did love you.”

Booth’s heart twisted at her decisive use of the past tense.

  
“I loved you, too.” 

They stood, avoiding each others’ eyes. 

“Do you think… Do you think there’s any chance..?” Rebecca asked. 

Booth paused. He thought about his Pops, married to the same woman for decades. He thought about the church’s view of divorce. He thought about Tempe, though this wasn’t about her. He thought about Parker. 

“I… I don’t know,” he said in the end. “I don’t think so.” 

A tear began to trickle down Rebecca’s cheek and he had to hold her, comfort her, stroke her hair. She pulled back after a few seconds. 

“You smell terrible,” she told him. 

Booth chuckled humorlessly. “And there’s the rub. I’ll go take a shower.”

When he came out of the bathroom, Rebecca was in her room and the door was closed. The guest room closet was already stocked with his clothes - nothing much had changed. Booth picked up the morning’s paper and began reading the apartment listings. He had some savings, but he needed to get a job. Tomorrow. He and Rebecca owned their apartment together, but he wasn’t about to take it out from under her. He owed her his share of the apartment. At least. 

There was a scream from the bedroom next door and Booth went through the familiar routine, changing the sheets, comforting Parker, bringing him to his own bed. He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around his son, wishing he could think of a happier resolution than the one which now seemed inevitable. 

BREAK

Parker was in the living room, building elaborate towers with expensive wooden blocks - Rebecca thought lego was tacky. 

“So, I was looking at apartments,” Booth said, trying to sound casual. He and Rebecca were in a relatively calm zone, drinking coffee in the kitchen. She wasn’t working that day. 

“Why?” Rebecca asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. 

“After we talked last night, I thought we… Understood each other,” Booth said. 

As he looked at her closer, he realised Rebecca looked happier than he’d seen her in weeks, as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She gave him a sunny smile. 

“We do, I think. It’s not working. But we have a good thing going here, Seeley. I see no reason for you to move out. You should stay until Parker starts preschool, at least.”

Booth takes a moment to digest this. 

“So you want us to live together, like roommates?” 

“Why not? This place is far nicer than anything you could afford by yourself, and I assume you want to be around Parker?”

“Of course!”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll stay. You can sleep in the guest room, but… Well, that’s not really a change, is it?” 

Booth could count the nights he’d spent in the master bedroom since returning from overseas on the fingers of one hand. Booth felt himself nodding. Rebecca was being so… So  _ cool  _ about it. As if she didn’t even care. As if she was happy. 

BREAK

“Your meal plan has expired,” Tempe said, wondering if it was, after all, possible for human beings to die of boredom. 

The young man in front of her feigned shock. He was not a good actor. 

“I just renewed it this semester,” he lied. His posse of friends, whose cards had already been swiped, nudged each other and laughed. It made Tempe’s skin crawl. 

“That is impossible. It expired in December. You can pay six dollars, or leave.”

“Come on. Don’t be like that, babe.” He flashed her a flirtatious leer. Tempe ignored it. 

“Six. Dollars. Or. Leave,” she said slowly, in case he was mentally impaired. 

“I’m not paying six bucks to eat in my own cafeteria!” he exclaimed. He banged his fist on Tempe’s desk. She didn’t flinch. 

His friends were beginning to get wary. 

“Come on man, you’re talking this too far. Just pay the six bucks before all the desserts are gone.” 

He gave Tempe an angry glare, but realising she wouldn’t budge, slammed six crumpled dollar bills down on the table. Tempe smoothed them out and put them into the till. 

“Thank you, enjoy your meal,” she recited. 

“Frigid bitch,” he replied. 

  
Tempe had been called worse. 

She tried to entertain herself by watching the students, observing their culture, their dress, their modes of speech. She thought about Booth’s insistence that she was different than other women. She still didn’t see it. All women were different. Sure, she didn’t have fashionable clothes, and her hair was plain, but she was still a woman. She still had all the parts. 

She had a horrible realisation. What if Booth  _ wanted  _ her to have the clothes, the hair, the nails? Did he find her plain? Boring? 

No, not boring. He’d told her he found her interesting. But-

“Brennan, you’re going to get fired again. I’ve been here for more than a minute.”

Tempe turned to see Angela perched on the edge of her desk. She took her friend’s card and swiped it. 

“Am I the wrong kind of interesting?” she asked. 

Angela touched her shoulder. 

“I’m gonna need some context for that one, honey.” 

“Booth-”

“Oh, this is about hunky married guy? Hold on, let me get snacks.” 

Angela dashed off and returned with a bowl piled high with various types of sugary cereal. She pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat opposite the desk, ignoring the strange looks she got from some of her fellow diners. 

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Booth told me I’m interesting, but he also told me I’m not like other women, and the things I’m not like are… things that men usually like.”

Angela crunched thoughtfully. 

“So you think he might be wishing that you were more like,” Angela scanned the room for a good example, “her?” 

The chosen woman wore a full face of make-up, form fitting jeans and a stomach-exposing sweater. She had wavy blonde hair and a tiny pink purse. 

Tempe evaluated, then nodded. 

“You’re wrong.”

“What’s your evidence?”

“What’s  _ your  _ evidence?”   
  


Tempe swiped a card. “It’s an accepted fact that societies almost always have a preferred standard of woman. While the exact specifications differ, the males within that society choose females as close to that standard as they can attain. Booth is…”

“A ten?”   
  
“I don’t know what that means.”   
  
“Hot, sweetie. It means he’s hot. He sounds hot.” 

“I was going to say, Booth is an example of the preferred standard of men in our society. So it stands to reason he would seek a woman of a similar standard. Not that he’s even seeking.”

Angela frowned. She’d rarely seen her friend so miserable. 

  
“Hey. You said they weren’t happy. You never know. And honey, you’re a  _ catch _ . Just because you don’t, you know, parade your plumage around, doesn’t mean guys don’t notice you.” 

“Typically, it’s the male of the species with elaborate plumage.”

Angela flicked a cocoa puff at her. “You’re a ten too, you know. An eleven, actually.” 

“It’s wrong to lie.” 

Angela brandished her spoon. “I am not lying. Don’t make me come over there!”

Tempe smiled in spite of herself. “Then you have a strange perspective.”

“I’m an artist. I have the best kind of perspective.”    
  


Tempe couldn’t really argue with that. 

BREAK

She rushed through the freezing rain, across the quad, to the student centre. Giving herself a shake, she checked the time. Three minutes past. She was late. And there was someone on the phone. Tempe stood next to it, dripping.  _ Finally _ , after five excruciating minutes of ‘you hang up, no you hang up’, the woman in front of her ran out of change, kissed the receiver, and left. 

Tempe wiped it with her damp sleeve, put in her money, and dialled the number she’d memorised the previous evening. 

He answered on the second ring. 

“Booth.” 

“Hi Booth. It’s Temperance.” 

“Tempe! I wondered if you’d changed your mind.” 

“Sorry, someone was using the phone. How are you?” 

There was a pause. “I’m fine. Parker and I baked cookies this morning. They’re pretty gross, but he enjoyed the experience.”

“I’ve never had much opportunity to bake. I’m quite adept at following instructions, though, so I expect I’d be good at it.” 

Booth grinned. “I expect so too. How about you, how are you?”    
  


“I am well. My classes this morning were relatively interesting. I got wet.”

“You got wet?” 

“In the rain,” Tempe explained. “It’s cold. I’m making a puddle in the phone booth.” 

Tempe heard a loud chuckle. “Why is that funny?” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” Booth said. Tempe remembered the scheme she and Angela had concocted the night before. 

“Would you like to go out with Angela and me on Friday evening?” 

“Go out where?” 

“Angela will decide. A club, I expect.” 

Booth wondered what Rebecca would say. She’d been in a relentlessly cheerful mood all weekend. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

  
“I’ll have to see if Rebecca’s going to be home with Parker. But, yes, I’d like to,” he said. 

Tempe didn’t think he sounded as enthusiastic as he ought to, but he’d said yes. She could feel her stomach fluttering and attempted to control it with her mind. 

“I can call you on Thursday to confirm,” she suggested.

“Okay,” Booth agreed. 

Tempe hung up, considering the conversation finished. She looked out at the rain and shivered, then found a radiator, draped her jacket over it, then sat on the floor in front of it and dug a book out of her bag. 

BREAK   
  


Booth looked at his now silent cell phone. Perhaps it was for the best. Tempe didn’t want to hear about his weird home situation. Did she? 

Before he could over analyse it, he called back the payphone she’d called him from. 

BREAK

Tempe looked up from her book. The payphone was ringing. Why was the payphone ringing? 

She looked around the deserted lobby. She was the only person in the vicinity of the phone, which, she supposed, meant that the duty of answering it fell to her. 

Missing the radiator immediately, she crossed the lobby and picked up the phone. 

“This is the Reichs building.”

“Tempe?”

“Booth? Why are you calling the Reichs building?” 

“I’m not calling the Reichs building, I’m calling you.” 

“You’re calling a public telephone. Anyone could have answered.” 

“But I knew it would be you.”   
  


“There’s no way you could have known that.”   
  
“And yet…”

“Why did you call me, then?” 

There was a pause. Tempe twisted her finger in the chord of the phone. 

“I… I’ve had a weird weekend. I talked to Rebecca. Told her it’s not working.”   
  


“Oh.” 

“She agreed, I think. So now we’re sort of… Well, I don’t really know what we are. But we’re not together. I mean, we’re still married, I guess, and we still live together, but… It meant something. I think it’s over.”

Tempe realised he sounded very sad. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m not,” Booth said. “At least, I shouldn’t be. It’s what I wanted. I don’t want to be with her, I was pushing for it, provoking her even… I don’t know why I feel so miserable, to be honest.”

“A man always finds it hard to realise that he may have finally lost a woman’s love,” Tempe quoted. 

“Mr. Holmes?”

“He understands feelings better than I do,” Tempe admitted. 

“As I recall, he doesn’t go in for feelings much himself.” 

“He relies upon logic, it’s true. But Conan Doyle understood feelings very well, I believe.” 

“I don’t think logic and feelings have to exclude each other,” Booth decided. 

“Perhaps not always. But feelings are deceptive. They cloud people’s judgement, preventing them from behaving rationally.”

“Do you think we should always be rational, Tempe?” Booth asked. 

Tempe thought about this for a long time, so long that Booth had to check she was still on the line.

“Did it cut out?”    
  
“No, I’m still here. I… Last Thursday, I would have said yes.” 

Booth decided not to push her any further. He was about to start another line of conversation when she spoke again. 

“Did you say everything you need to say?” she asked. 

“I, uh… Do you have to go?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tempe said. “So. Did you?” 

“Sure, I guess-”   
  
He was speaking to dead air again. Tempe, who had been gazing at the radiator with longing for the entirety of their call, hurried over to it and shuddered as she began to warm up. She picked up her book, but gave up on it when she realised she had read the same sentence eleven times. 

She hugged her knees, rested her chin on them, and gazed out at the rain. She knew why her heart rate had increased, medically speaking.  Epinephrine and norepinephrine had been released into her bloodstream when the adrenal medulla in her brain released catecholamines in reaction to what he had told her. And he had told her his marriage was over. 

They were still just friends, she told herself. It didn’t have to change anything. 

But it had. It had changed everything. 


	5. Chapter 5

Monday’s freezing rain had become sleet on Tuesday, and by Wednesday morning a dusting of snow covered most of Illinois. Tempe argued strongly that there was nothing romantic about weather. Huddled in her old, rather inadequate jacket, in the lobby of one of Northwestern’s greyer buildings, she gripped the decaying strap of her book bag and ignored the burning sensation in her exposed fingers as they adjusted to the slight increase in temperature now that she was inside. 

The forensics lab she was waiting for was usually her favourite class of the week. Tempe enjoyed reading, but the practical application of her learning was what she lived for. Their current topic, DNA evidence, was fascinating to her. The idea that all human beings shared so much of this genetic code, but that it could also be unique for (almost) all people, made its study one of the most interesting things Tempe had ever explored. Of course, the professor had her inadequacies, and she’d lacked answers to several of Tempe’s questions, but she also possessed a wealth of knowledge about criminal cases which was far superior to Tempe’s. Tempe respected her, and she Tempe, possibly to the slight detriment of the other students in the class, who often struggled to keep up with the conversation, but Professor Anderson’s view was that if they cared half as much as Tempe did, they’d do the research in order to participate. 

This Wednesday however, Professor Anderson was late, and it was looking more and more likely to Tempe that she wouldn’t be attending. Presumably in response to the snow, the seven other students usually in the class had not made an appearance either. Tempe was reluctantly approaching the conclusion that the class would not take place, and that, cold and disappointed, she would have to find another use for her morning. She decided to give it another five minutes. 

After reading every available poster, highly informed about the symptoms of meningitis and various STDs, Tempe wandered around the lobby and discovered a pay phone. She watched it for a while. It didn’t ring. And then she found herself considering the parameters of her newest friendship. They had agreed to confirm their plans for Friday with a call on Thursday. It was not Thursday. But Tempe felt her fingers itching to dial the number already etched into her brain. She considered calling Angela at the dorm. She realised that, while calling Angela was a bad idea (sleeping Angela did not take kindly to being woken up), she could, in the future, give Booth the number for the phone in their room. Since it was almost exclusively Angela who used it, Tempe considered it to be Angela’s phone, but technically it was hers too. 

Professor Anderson was still nowhere to be seen. Tempe looked at the pay phone again, as if it might advise her somehow. 

_ It’s an inanimate object _ , she told herself. 

_ An inanimate object with the power to connect you with Booth _ , a different part of her psyche commented. 

_ You should not do things simply because you can _ , she countered. 

_ But you could _ , was the reply. 

Tempe shivered, and wondered if the decision would be easier if she were warm. She felt herself becoming extremely frustrated. She despised agonising over decisions. Decisions were simple. You weighed up the pros and cons, then chose the action most likely to have the most positive outcome. 

Tempe picked up the receiver and fumbled in her pocket for her purse, which contained loose change. Her still cold fingers were uncooperative and somewhere between unfastening the zipper and retrieving a quarter, she managed to spill the entire contents of the purse onto the floor. 

“Fuck!” she yelled to what she thought was an empty lobby. 

“Are you alright, Temperance?”

Tempe looked up, blushing, to see Professor Anderson. 

“I... this is ridiculous!” Tempe exclaimed, struggling to pick up the coins from the floor. Anderson removed her large, fluffy mittens, and assisted with the retrieval. 

When this was complete, they stood, and Anderson gave Tempe a warm smile. “I’m going to unlock the lab. Did you want to make your call before coming in?”

Tempe shook her head. “No.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind, I’m so late another couple of minutes won’t make much difference.”

Tempe moved away from the phone as if the receiver might leap out and accost her. 

“No. I was planning to make a call to pass the time until class. Now that you are here, that is no longer necessary.”

Anderson accepted this, and they went into the lab together.

“Has everyone else come and gone?”

Tempe shook her head. “I was here five minutes before our lab is timetabled to begin. No one else has been in the lobby.”

Anderson sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be disappointed.”

She began getting out slides and samples, explaining what she’d been planning for the lab. After fielding Tempe’s questions from the reading, seeming to enjoy being kept on her toes, she settled to demonstrating the characteristics to look for when examining various samples.

Anderson was intrigued by Temperance, who, for the first time since they’d met, was markedly distracted. After a particularly botched answer, the like of which she would never have expected from Temperance, Anderson could contain her curiosity no longer. 

“What on earth is going on?” she asked, pushing the microscope away. 

Tempe was mortified. It showed. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Anderson said kindly. “I just mean... You clearly have something on your mind. And as well as being an expert in the field of forensic science, I’m sometimes considered fairly wise in other areas of life. Why not take advantage of your classmates’ apparent chionophobia and tell me what’s happening? Perhaps I could help.”

Tempe struggled with this for a few seconds, then gave in. 

“I’m having difficulties with the parameters of a friendship,” she said, trying to keep her voice from whining. “I don’t like it,” she added, for clarity. 

Anderson waited for more information. 

“There’s a... A man,” Tempe continued. “He’s... Tall.”

Anderson waited again, but Tempe didn’t elaborate further.

“And you have feelings for this tall man?”

“I don’t know!” Tempe cried, resisting the temptation to bang her fists against the Formica topped workstation. “Currently, I feel nauseous and distracted. Is that what having feelings for somebody means?”

“Sometimes,” Anderson offered.

“That doesn’t help me at all!” 

“Talking about it might. Would you like to tell me more about this tall man?”

Tempe sighed. Anderson stifled a chuckle. It was a sigh worthy of a silent movie star. 

“He’s... Irritating,” Tempe said. “We disagree. He’s unscientific. He believes the murders in The Hound of the Baskervilles were in fact committed by a supernatural creature!”

There was a pause. Anderson waited.

“He’s also kind,” Tempe said with another sigh. “He insists that I’m special. Most people, present company excepted, look at me like I’m disgusting or idiotic. He looks at me... The way I look at books. We can talk for hours by accident and even though he doesn’t know anything about anthropology, and only a little about forensics, I haven’t ever been bored. I feel warm, when I’m with him. Safe. And also not safe at all, but somehow the danger isn’t bad. It’s addictive.”

“Have you ever read anything about love?” Anderson asked.

“Love? That’s ridiculous.” Tempe was adamant. “Love doesn’t exist. It’s all brain chemistry. Besides, we’ve only known each other for 5 days.”

_ And anyway, _ Tempe added silently,  _ I’m not capable, either of loving, or being loved.  _

“That’s more than enough time,” Anderson argued. “Was it him you were going to call?”

Tempe bit her lip. “I hadn’t decided,” she admitted. “I wanted to... It’s stupid, but I was cold and disappointed and I thought hearing his voice would make me feel better.”

“That’s scientifically valid. Our body chemistry responds to auditory stimulation - we feel good when we hear someone we like. Why do you say it’s stupid?”

“Because I shouldn’t want anyone else to make me feel good. I am perfectly self sufficient. I don’t need anyone.”

“I think you should call him,” Anderson told her. “Because I agree with you. You don’t need him. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t good for you.”

Tempe chewed on the inside of her cheek, hating herself for not revealing that Booth was married. Not that it mattered. Because they were just friends. But still. Temperance took great pride in her honesty, and for some reason, she was not being entirely honest with her professor. 

Anderson gave her a pat on the shoulder. It was somewhat awkward. Then they went back to the slides, and no more was said about Tempe’s mistakes. 

BREAK

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

Booth sat in the confessional box. It was Wednesday, after the midweek evening mass.

“It’s been a week since my last confession. But since then... It’s gotten worse. With my wife. We aren’t connecting, at all. The only thing that’s made her happy is the suggestion that we separate. Except she says we should carry on living together, so I don’t really know what she wants.”

“And what do you want, my son?”

Booth groaned. “That’s the other problem. I want... I want someone else.”

There was a pause.

“Have you acted on these desires?”

“No! Of course not! But...” Booth trailed off.

“But you have imagined doing so.”

“And that’s as bad, right, in God’s eyes?”

“God knows your heart, my son. Trust Him.”

“But how can I... How can I know what’s right?”

“I believe you do know. Say 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers. Be honest with your wife. I have faith that you’ll resolve this.”

“Resolve the problem? Or resolve things with Rebecca?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Booth was tempted to kick the panel in the box. He did close the door a little too firmly when he left it, and said an extra Our Father as penance. 

Every time he said “lead us not into temptation” he pictured Temperance Brennan. He smoked continuously on the way home.

Standing outside his building, Booth tried to imagine a future he was happy with, but whenever he tried to picture it, he was besieged by memories instead, memories of the death and destruction of war, death and destruction which he couldn’t help feeling responsible for. According to his priest, he had been in the right, fighting for good, but Booth couldn’t bring himself to see it so simply. He  _ did  _ believe in the army, in keeping people safe by force if necessary, but while he could explain, rationally, that the lives he had taken had been for the greater good, he wasn’t sure if this justification was enough for him. 

He’d tried to talk to Rebecca about it, once. They’d been wrapping gifts on Christmas Eve and he’d frozen, suddenly, looking at the camouflage print pyjamas Rebecca had bought for Parker. 

“I don’t want to give him these,” Booth had said. 

“He’ll love them! He’s seen pictures of you in uniform, he’ll love dressing up like that.” 

“But he doesn’t know what it _means_. The print is like that so I can sneak up on people and _shoot_ _them_. Still think it’d be cute for him to match his Daddy?” Booth’s eyes had prickled with tears and Rebecca had snatched the pyjamas away and thrown them in the trash. 

  
“Who are you?” she’d asked him, before leaving the room. 

Booth pondered the question again as he avoided going inside. Who was he, now? Not the man who’d gone off to war, post 9/11, determined to make a difference, believing in it all. And not the man who’d married Rebecca. 

He’d believed in that so strongly too. When she told him about the baby, it had been the only option. He’d dropped to one knee, told her he loved her, and that they were going to be a family. He’d had no idea what that actually meant. 

He wasn’t sure he really knew what it meant now, either. He thought of his own parents and shuddered. He thought of Parker, and strengthened his resolve. He would do as the priest said. He would tell Rebecca the truth, and go from there. 

He took the stairs two at a time, satisfied that he was taking the best course of action. 

He unlocked the door. The living room was deserted. It was only 9pm, too early for Rebecca to be sleeping. He wondered if she was avoiding him. He looked into Parker’s room, where Parker was fast asleep. He tried the kitchen - empty. The bathroom too. Rebecca’s door was closed. He paused outside, his spine tingling. 

And then he heard a voice, low and quiet. It wasn’t Rebecca. 

“One more time…”

A giggle, which was Rebecca. “Come on, you have to go, Seeley will be back soon.”

“Let him come back.”

“No…” Another giggle. 

Booth had heard enough. He coughed, loudly, and kicked off his shoes with two resounding thumps. 

“Hey, Becks,” he called. “I’m home. I’m gonna jump in the shower.” 

He locked himself in the bathroom and listened as her paramour scuttled away into the night. 

_ Nothing’s changed _ , he told himself. But somehow, after hearing that, hearing how close they seemed, he couldn’t bring himself to be honest with her. That hadn’t been a first time thing. That had been a long term thing. And he had a sickening feeling that if he confessed his interest in another woman to her, she would just laugh, or giggle, in his face.

Booth was not a petty man. He was a good man. He had tried, for four years, to be a good husband. 

_ And failed _ , his helpful brain supplied. 

“Fuck!” he yelled, punching the tile. “I didn’t do it! I wasn’t going to do it, I was going to set things straight first! It’s not supposed to be like this!” 

He’d thought the tile might break, but all it did was bruise his knuckles. He punched again. Because even now, even now he knew Rebecca was actually cheating on him, in the fucking flesh, he  _ still  _ felt guilty about his interest in Tempe.

When he was calm enough, he came out of the shower, a towel around his waist, and looked around for Rebecca. She was in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea.

“How was church?” she asked him. 

“It was fine,” he said, carefully controlling his tone. “How was your evening?” 

“Uneventful,” Rebecca said, not meeting his eyes. 

“Fine,” Booth repeated. Then his mouth began working of its own accord. “I’m going out with friends on Friday evening. We’ll be late. You’ll be here with Parker?” 

Rebecca nodded, a little blindsided. “Uh, sure. Good.” After a moment, she added, “I’m glad, Seeley, that you’re getting out, seeing friends.” 

He nodded. “Yeah. Good, then. Good. Goodnight.” 

Rebecca looked at him, puzzled. “Goodnight.” 

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Tempe huddled under the covers, ignoring the rude bursts of sound from her alarm clock. Groggily, Angela crawled out of bed and poked at it until it stopped. Then, with a violent shiver, she yanked Tempe’s blanket away and stared at her in disbelief. 

“Who are you and what have you done with Tempe Brennan?” she demanded. 

  
“Give me my blanket,” Tempe moaned. 

  
Angela climbed in next to her and covered them both. 

“Only if you tell me why you’re having a lie in for the first time  _ ever _ since I’ve known you.”

Tempe snuggled into Angela’s arms. “You are a warm, kind person,” she mumbled. Angela, now wide awake, gave her a friendly shove. 

“Tell me. Or I’ll worry.” 

Tempe sighed. “I have to call Booth today,” she admitted. “We agreed. It’s Thursday.” 

“And that’s a bad thing because…” 

“Because… Because I’m confused,” Tempe said, blinking sleep out of her eyes and sitting up to look at her friend. “And I dislike being confused.”

Angela sat up next to her and leaned on the wall. “People are confusing. It’s their nature. Doesn’t mean they aren’t worthwhile.” 

“But… He’s married, Angela. He’s married and I… I like him. A lot. I want to be his friend. I want him to be my friend. But I also…” she trailed off, embarrassed. 

“Want to make like a bunny?” Angela provided helpfully. 

“No,” Tempe said. “I mean, I don’t know, but you know how I feel about sex. Sex is simple. It satisfies a physiological demand. I understand sex perfectly.”   
  
“I accept that you think you do,” Angela said. “So, if this isn’t about sex-”   
  
“We aren’t going to have sex,” Tempe interrupted. 

“Okay, so if this isn’t about sex, or the lack thereof, what is it about?” 

“I don’t know,” Tempe said, sounding horrified at herself. 

“Welcome to my world,” Angela said, smiling. “You’re spoiled, Brennan. You know so much about so many things. The rest of us spend most of our lives just muddling through. Maybe it’ll do you some good to muddle a little.”   
  
“I  _ hate  _ muddling,” Tempe exclaimed. “The world is made of science, of facts, of things which can be made sense of. There is a logical, rational explanation for everything, including sexual desire, love, partnership… I should know what is happening to me!”

Angela pulled her into a hug. “Sweetie, this sucks, and I’m sorry. But I wonder if maybe… Maybe you need a wake-up call about this. I had the same thought when you were with Michael-”   
  
“Angela! We agreed.”   
  


“Right, right, never to speak his name again. But it’s been six months, Brennan. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”   
  
“There’s nothing to talk about. We were together. Now we’re not. He’s not even in the US at the moment.” 

“Okay. But, and I don’t mean Michael, but don’t you think it’s worth considering the possibility that you might one day develop feelings for somebody?” 

“Feelings are just brain chemistry, Angela, and they’re brain chemistry I don’t have time to indulge in.” 

“If that’s true, why were you so excited to invite Booth out with us tomorrow? And why are you so torn up about calling him to confirm it? If you’re really not interested, just call him and say so. It’s not a big deal.” 

Angela was pushing a sensitive spot and she knew it. 

“I want to go out together. I want to be friends. I just don’t want complications. Or mess, or muddling.”

“Okay. If that’s really what you want, we can make that happen.” 

“Really?” Tempe asked, sounding charmingly and hopelessly naive.

“But only if you’re truly committed to the friends and nothing else scenario.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. 

“What if I’m not entirely committed?” Tempe asked in a small voice. 

Angela grinned. “Then we pull out all the stops and get you good and muddled!”

Tempe couldn’t help it, Angela’s positivity was infections. She had no answers, but, as they discussed over breakfast, maybe the following evening would provide some. 

“If nothing else, we’re going to tear it up,” Angela declared, making enthusiastic gestures with the piece of syrup soaked pancake which was speared on the end of her fork. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Tempe said, but she smiled as she stirred her lukewarm oatmeal.

“Fun, Brennan. It means we’re going to have fun.”

BREAK

Parker was wrapped up in so many layers, Booth wondered if it would be faster to roll him through the snow. They were walking, very slowly, towards the public library, for Thursday morning Rhyme Time. This had been Booth’s discovery after the holidays. Parker had been going to a childminder throughout the week, but Booth wanted to spend more time with him and Rebecca, though initially against changing Parker’s routine, agreed that as long as Booth took responsibility for everything, including finding alternative arrangements when he started working, it would ‘probably be okay’. 

“Daddy?” Parker asked, stomping on a particularly inviting drift of snow at the edge of the sidewalk. 

  
“Yes, Parker?” Booth asked. He often thought, when he talked to Parker, that he didn’t talk to him the way you should really talk to a three year old. He hadn’t ever spent much time talking to three year olds, not since he was one himself. So he just talked to Parker like he’d talk to anyone, though perhaps with fewer curse words. 

“Why is snow so cold?” 

“Uh, because it’s frozen,” Booth said. 

Parker looked pensive. “I think it should snow when it’s sunny. So you can play outside all day,” he explained. “It’s sad that it only snows when it’s cold.” 

Booth couldn’t help agreeing. “It doesn’t work like that, pal. Snow only works when it’s cold. If snow gets warm, it melts.” 

He demonstrated this, sliding off his glove and taking some snow in his hand. 

“See,” he showed Parker. “My hand is warm, and when the snow gets warm from my hand, it melts and turns back into water.” 

“Snow turns into water?” Parker asked, fascinated. 

  
“Snow’s made of water,” Booth said. 

“No it’s not!” Parker said, gesturing to the snow. “Look, it’s not water. It’s snow!”

“Snow’s frozen water. Up in the clouds, there’s water, and it gets cold and freezes, and then it turns into snow and falls down.” 

Parker looked up at the clouds, as if he expected to see this process.    
  


“It’s magic,” he said. 

Booth chuckled. “Nope, not magic, son. But it is pretty cool.”

Parker took off his own mitten, held it in his teeth, and picked up some snow to melt on his own hand. 

“Look, Daddy, look! It’s going runny!” 

Booth grinned. “Told you.”

Parker blew on the little puddle in his hand. 

“It’s not working,” he said sadly. 

“What’s not working?” 

“I’m trying to make it cold again so it goes back into snow.” 

Booth wondered if seeing the logic in this was foolish.

“We can’t make it cold enough by blowing. We can freeze some water when we get home, though.”

“We can?” 

  
“Sure. Put your glove back on kid, before your hand freezes.”

“Will my hand freeze into snow?”

Booth helped him dry his hand and put his mitten on. “No. But if a person’s hand gets really cold they can get something called frostbite.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s when their fingers freeze so the blood can’t pump around any more and it goes all gross and purple and stops working, so you have to chop it off!”

Booth pretended to chop Parker’s fingers with his own. 

“Come on kid, we gotta step on it or we’ll be late.”

Parker obliged, hurrying along on his little legs. 

“Daddy?” he asked again after a few moments. 

  
“Yes, Parker?” 

“How will we make snow at home? We don’t have any clouds.” 

Again, Booth thought Parker was making way too much sense. 

“I don’t actually know how to make snow. I know how to make ice, and you do that by making water really cold, much colder than you can by blowing on it.” 

“But  _ how _ ?” Parker asked. 

“Well, where’s the coldest place in our apartment?” 

  
“The freezer!” Parker exclaimed. “Are we gonna put it in the freezer?”    
  
“Yup. That’s why it’s called a freezer. Because it freezes stuff.”

Parker grinned. “If we put me in the freezer, would I get frostbite?” 

Booth chuckled. “Probably. But you wouldn’t fit.” 

“We could take the shelves out.”    
  
“What about the ice cream? If we leave the ice cream out of the freezer, it’ll melt. Like the snow on your hand.”    
  
“Oh. Okay.”

“Seriously Parker, don’t try getting in the freezer,” Booth said, suddenly a little worried.

Parker nodded happily. They had reached the library. He shot up the steps and waited by the door; Booth took them two at a time and showed him how to stomp up and down to get the snow off his boots before going inside. 

The lady who did Rhyme Time was delightfully eccentric, with grey hair and big necklaces and a wide, loving smile. Today she was wearing a brightly coloured skirt with a jungle animal pattern. 

“Carmen!” Parker said, running right to her. This was only their third week, but Parker was a good judge of character. 

“Hello, Parker. Mr. Booth,” she said warmly.

“Carmen, did you know snow’s made of water?” Parker asked, his astonishment at this information clear in his voice. 

“I did,” Carmen told him, “but it still surprises me, when the snow’s looking so beautiful like it does today.” 

They waited in the lobby for any stragglers. Booth kept to himself, suddenly very interested in a display of the latest crime thrillers. The other parents were open and friendly, but apart from him, they were all women. Booth stuck out like a sore thumb, and while he was happy to attend so that Parker could socialise, he wasn’t really interested in socialising himself. 

Tessa, however, had other ideas. She seemed to be the queen bee in the group of mothers, and, to Booth’s horror, she was now making a beeline for him. 

“You must be Parker’s dad. I’m Tessa, Jayme’s mom.” 

Booth tried to remember which kid was Jayme. 

  
“Why don’t you come over and join us? Everybody’s  _ very  _ curious about you.” She looked him up and down and Booth suppressed a shudder. He liked women. But this was making him reconsider every pick up line he’d ever used. 

If this was how women felt when guys came onto them, he thought as he followed Tessa over to her hive, he would never be that guy again. Actually, he realised, what men did to women was a lot worse. He kicked himself internally on behalf of women, then smiled at Tessa and her friends. He could manage to be polite, at least. 

Carmen was leading the way to the room they used for Rhyme Time. The children followed her eagerly and sat in a circle. Booth realised he wished he could go with them, but Parker was clearly happy without him. 

“So, what’s your story?” 

  
The women had all introduced themselves. Booth tried to remember even one of their names. 

“Uh, I’m Seeley. Parker’s dad. And that’s it right now, I stay home with him.”   
  


“That’s so amazing,” Tessa gushed. “Stay-at-home dads are so  _ in  _ right now but I’ve never actually met one! Can you cook?” 

Booth shifted his weight awkwardly. “Sure.”

“And what about Parker’s mom?” Tessa asked. “I’m a single mom myself, it’s just me and Jayme.” 

A few of the other women offered sympathetic glances. 

“She works, she’s a lawyer. We’re, uh, separating,” Booth said, then kicked himself internally for the second time in as many minutes, although this time the kick was on his own behalf. 

  
All the sympathetic glances rerouted to him, and Tessa put her hand on his arm. 

“Oh, you poor thing!” she said. Booth was wondering what on earth he could say next when, miracle of miracles, his cell phone rang. 

  
“Better get that,” he said, dashing outside and answering the phone without even checking who it was. 

“Whoever you are, I owe you a great debt of gratitude,” he said. 

“Why?” 

Booth laughed with relief. “Tempe. Boy, am I glad you called.” 

“Why?” she asked again. 

“Because I was trapped with a pack of man-eating mothers and you gave me an excuse to flee.” 

Tempe did not appear to hear the humour in this. “I think it’s unlikely that they were really cannibals, so I have to assume you’re being hyperbolic?” 

“I’m not so sure,” Booth said. 

“Anyway,” Tempe announced. “I’m calling, as agreed, to confirm our meeting tomorrow?” 

Booth grinned. He’d been so worried when she wasn’t there, but when he actually spoke to Tempe, he found it impossible to worry at all. 

“Right! It’s on. Rebecca’s going to watch Parker.” 

“Excellent!” Booth thought he detected relief in Tempe’s voice. “You can meet us at our dorm at 8.” 

“That’s fine, but wait, are you about to do the hanging up thing again?”    
  
“What hanging up thing?”    
  
“The thing where you decide the conversation’s finished so you just hang up without saying goodbye.”   
  
“Oh. Well, yes, I was going to do that. Why do you ask?” 

“Because, please don’t. If you hang up, I’ll either have to pretend to be on the phone still, or go back inside with the cannibals, and I’m not a very good actor, so…”

“I believe I’ve ascertained your meaning. I have some time. I can stay on the phone.” 

“You’re an angel.” 

“Angels do not exist. Where are you? I didn’t know there were cannibals in Chicago.” She sounded interested, as if she was going to turn it into an anthropological study. 

“I’m at the public library. And they’re not  _ really  _ cannibals. I brought Parker to Rhyme Time, they’re the other parents.” 

“What is Rhyme Time?” 

“It’s something for little kids, there’s a sort of teacher, she sings songs and rhymes, and the parents hang out, some join in, but we’re just meant to stay in case our kid has a tantrum or something.” 

“Traditional songs and poems have been a staple of most cultures since the beginning of recorded history,” Tempe told him. “Many cultures pass down their history through oral storytelling rather than writing. After all, literacy among the lower classes is incredibly recent, and some would argue, still does not permeate.” 

“Right,” Booth agreed, trying to accelerate his brain so it could keep up with her. 

“Why did you say the other parents are cannibals?” Tempe asked. 

“Well, they’re all women.”

  
“There’s no evidence that cannibalism is more prevalent in either gender.”

  
“No, they’re… They’re very  _ interested  _ in me, because I’m the only man in the group, possibly the only man in the building.”

“Oh. Well, anthropologically, it is interesting that you’re there. Raising small children is definitely considered a woman’s domain, even in our so-called advanced society. Why are you there?” 

“Because, you know, the thing you said about traditional songs being important. That. Only less smart. And because he should spend time around other kids. He was going to a childminder, but now that I’m back I thought it was a waste of money. Plus, I didn’t really like her. Her place was too clean for somewhere kids hung out all day. Parker said there was a lot of TV.”

“I don’t like television.”

“One of many excellent and intriguing things about you.” 

There was a pause. “Tempe, are you still there?” 

“Yes. Sorry. Angela told me that I should bask in compliments. So I was trying to bask.” 

Booth laughed. “How was it?”    
  
“It’s too cold.”

“I’ll remind you in summer, how excellent you are, and you can bask then.” 

Booth thought he could hear her smiling. He could imagine it, anyway. It was beautiful, and he did some chilly basking himself. 

“Hey, I think Parker’s gonna be a genius,” Booth told her. “He’s a great talker, you know that, and on the way to the library he was asking me all these questions about snow and I told him about it melting and when some melted on his hand, he blew on it to try and make it cold again so it would go back to being snow.” 

There was a pause while Tempe digested this description. “While I don’t think he’s far enough above average to be called a genius, I agree that Parker communicates well for his age. As for blowing on water, while I see an element of logic, it is an extremely flawed endeavor. I hope you explained.”    
  
“Of course. I told him we can make some ice later, in the freezer.”   
  
“Good. People should explain things properly to children. Emily, the child you met on Saturday, believes that when she loses a tooth, a fairy will come and take it from under her pillow, and leave her money. I tried to explain why children lose their baby teeth, and that there are no such things as fairies, but she was adamant that her mother had told her, therefore the fairy must exist.” 

“Okay, I agree about explaining stuff like snow. But, Tempe, come on. The tooth fairy, that’s… That’s like a staple of childhood.”

“It is a  _ lie _ .” 

“It’s a white lie that brings magic into a kid’s life. Surely there’s nothing wrong with a bit of magic?” 

“ _ Imagining  _ magic is fine. But telling children magic is real can do nothing but set them up for disappointment.”

“We told Parker Santa brought him presents. Don’t tell me you think that’s wrong too?” 

“Did you lie to him?”    
  
“Well, yeah, but only about Santa!”

“Then I think it’s wrong.”   
  
“Come on, Tempe, at Christmas! Didn’t your parents tell you about Santa?” 

There was a pause. 

Then, “No. I suspect we are not going to agree. But you can continue to persuade me on Friday. I have to go now.” 

Booth thought he heard a catch in her voice, like she was upset. Surely she couldn’t be upset just because he’d told Parker about Santa? 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked.

“No. The reverse, in fact. It’s been very entertaining to talk with you. Goodbye,” she finished pointedly, and hung up. Booth was sure there was something off about her voice, something that hadn’t been there until he’d started talking about Christmas. He wondered what it was. 

The man-eating mothers had gone to the cafe, so Booth went to sit with Parker, singing his heart out to Wheels on the Bus and Little Bo Peep, gender roles be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well… thoughts? Also, just FYI, I’m changing Brennan’s history a little. It’ll all be explained when it needs to be - suffice to say for now that I have a fairly loose relationship with anything canon except the characters. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tiny chapter, but I had to do something while I waited for my laundry. 

“How about this?” 

Angela, after spending 30 seconds wriggling into a skin tight blue dress that covered just above her boobs to just below her ass, tried to remain calm. 

“Brennan. I love you. Do not wear that.” 

Tempe groaned. “I don’t have anything else. This was the last one.” 

  
The knee length, floral number had been the least bad. But it was still bad.  _ Bad _ . 

  
“Wear something of mine.”    
  
“That would be breaking the rules.”

Since their first semester rooming together, the noticeboard in their room had been home to Tempe and Angela’s roommate agreement, which had begun on a sheet of yellow lined paper, but now covered post-its, napkins, and the backs of receipts. It included everything from ‘always tell your roommate the truth’ (Tempe) to ‘fights have to end after 24 hours max then we kiss and make up regardless’ (Angela). ‘No sharing clothes’ had been Tempe, added when she arrived home after a brutal day of classes to find Angela asleep in her favourite sweater. 

Angela approached the board and snatched the offending rule, which was written on a neon green post-it, down. 

“Angela, you can’t remove-”   
  
Angela ripped the post-it in half. 

“I give you full permission to reinstate it tomorrow. But tonight, you need me, way more than you need that rule.”

  
Tempe looked aghast at the two pieces of post-it. 

“Move on,” Angela advised. “And let me dress you.”    
  
“I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” 

Angela ignored this and dug several options out of her closet. Tempe examined them, trying not to luxuriate. Angela had far more clothes than she did, and they were all pretty, although Tempe wondered if Angela had the ability to make even the most mundane outfit look beautiful. 

She ended up in a figure hugging dress not dissimilar to what Angela was wearing, but Tempe’s was slightly longer, black rather than blue, and had narrow shoulder straps. Angela nodded approvingly. She chose a black necklace for herself, but after examining several jewellery options for Tempe, declared that accessories weren’t necessary in Tempe’s case. 

“Red lipstick, I’ll do your hair, you’re going to wear it down. You don’t need anything else,” she ordered. 

Tempe complied. She understood the need for a costume, but wished she knew more about exactly what was required. As for how to behave, she refused to admit how clueless she was, and hoped she would be able to copy Angela. They had been out before, but these days Tempe often found an excuse and let Angela go with her other friends. 

“Here,” Angela told her, passing her a pair of black stilettos.

“High heeled shoes have been proven to damage people’s feet,” Tempe told her. 

“But they make your ass look  _ awesome _ ,” Angela told her. Tempe put them on, looked in the mirror, and had to agree. Angela put on her own heels and touched up her make-up. 

Tempe sat on the edge of her bed, feeling nervous. 

“Sweetie, you look like you’re going to throw up. We didn’t even drink yet.”   
  
“Sorry,” Tempe said. “I find I feel anxious. I do not know what to expect.” 

“It’s a club. A classy, grown up club, with drinks and music and dancing. We’ll go in, Booth will buy us both a drink, we’ll sit down, yell at each other because the music will be too loud for proper conversation, then we’ll dance. You’ll dance with Booth, I’ll dance with whoever I like.”

Tempe realised during Angela’s explanation that, among other things, she was worried about what Booth would think of Angela. She was sure he would like her. All men did. He would like her far more than he liked Tempe, and Tempe was sure he would be nice about it, because he was nice, but Booth would dance with Angela, Tempe was certain. 

Angela had finished speaking, so Tempe nodded. Angela was about to say something else when their phone rang. 

“Visitor for Brennan,” said a bored sounding dorm receptionist. 

“We’ll be right down,” Angela said. She hung up, then looked Tempe up down. “He’s gonna  _ flip _ ,” she said excitedly. 

“We should bring our jackets,” Tempe said. “It’s cold.” 

  
“No way. No jackets. If you bring a jacket you have to pay for the cloakroom, and probably for entry, because, wrong as it is, looking like this we’ll get in for free, but with our jackets on it’ll be ten bucks each.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”   
  
“Right? But c’est la vie. You ready?” 

Angela picked up a small clutch purse which contained their keys and some cash. Tempe reached to pick up her book bag. Angela swatted her hand away and gave her a roll of bills instead. 

“Tuck this in your tits,” she said, grinning. “I have the keys. Oh, give me your ID too. There, we don’t need anything else.”

Tempe was too preoccupied to argue, so they left their room and took the elevator down to the lobby. Booth was waiting in a corner. Angela strode over to him, beaming. 

“You must be the infamous Seeley Booth. I’m Angela Montenegro, it’s a pleasure.”

Booth shook the proffered hand, smiling too, but glancing over Angela’s shoulder to where Tempe was hovering. 

“It’s just Booth. It’s great to meet you Angela, I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Really? I hope it was salacious.” 

Booth chuckled. “You’re forgetting who I heard it from.” 

“Yeah, Brennan doesn’t really go in for gossip. We booked a cab, it’ll be here in five.” 

“Great. Brennan? Tempe, she calls you Brennan?” 

Tempe, now that she had been addressed, forced herself to join the conversation. 

“Yes. She disagrees with temperance, as a concept.”

Booth laughed. “I can relate. Especially tonight - Brennan, can I call you Brennan too? Brennan, you look  _ incredible _ .” 

Tempe blushed, blinked, and was obliged to accept that she had been mistaken. Booth was looking right past Angela and staring straight at her. Angela waggled her eyebrows encouragingly. Tempe bit her lip. Booth gulped.

“You look good, too,” Tempe told him. It was true. Booth wore black jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He’d shaved, and his hair had a tousled, freshly washed look that made Tempe want to run her fingers through it. 

Angela watched them look at each other and smiled to herself. If Booth was as nice as her first impression suggested, he was exactly what Brennan needed. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
